Better Place

I thought about those two words for the longest time.  Honestly, I still do.   I see them everywhere.  Every time, someone leaves us, those two words force their way out of everyone's mouth.  Every time, goodbye is inevitable, there they are again. 

I thought it might be easy for them atheist folks until I heard them speak.  Well, until, I listened as they spoke.  Such anger, with such religious fervor, those non believers regurgitate the hymns of fear.  That's the thing about anger, it's just a secondary emotion and it's always a result of fear.

When you're on your death bed and the end is inevitably near, perspective changes.  Logic and truth finally divorce each other from the arrogant vows they made long before.  Really, it comes down to those two words.


Everyone thinks they're interesting.  Everyone is always telling the storyteller next to them they should write a book.  I suppose, we are more ordinary than we believe.  I suppose, we are also more unique than we realize.  But we're all the same.


I was 12 years old and mom was leaving town for the weekend.  Her only instructions to me were a demand that I go to church on Sunday.  No other rules.  No curfew.  No expectations.  Just make it to church on Sunday.

Sunday arrived.  It was pouring rain.  Football was on. I had a major dilemma.   So, I jumped on my bicycle, rode 2 miles in the downpour, got to church.  Ran inside the foyer, grabbed the Sunday bulletin and rode my bike back home.

Problem solved.  Now, I had proof I went to church.  Mom never mentioned anything about staying for the sermon. 

Loopholes are always sought by the young.  

As I placed that now soaked church bulletin on our kitchen table, those two words were staring right at me as I glanced over the weekly church members obituary section.  They resonated with me.


Years, okay, two decades later, I heard them again echo throughout a crowded sanctuary.  I was sitting alone in a sea of friends, acquaintances and former party colleagues.  It was a matter of pride and a more comfortable way of grieving. 

How did we get here?  How did we let this happen?  Those were my thoughts.

He could have written a book if he ever finished writing his story.  But like all ordinary men, they die early.  And tragically.  It's easy to fail. 

I like the idea of those of us left behind getting to finish his book simply so his story was not unfinished in vain.   

He's in a better place filled with unaccomplished authors.  A place where talent is over rated and potential is a dirty word.

If this life is all there is, we should make the most of it.  And if this life is merely a speck in a time and nothing really matters in the grand scheme of everything, we should still make the most of it.  No one really dies.  I don't believe that.  I think a true reflection of one's life comes after we are gone as people recollect their moments with us; as memories are retold over and over again; as our names are mentioned and others are flooded with emotion be it anger or hate or love or admiration.

I think there is a better place for us when we die.  Maybe, it's not heaven.  Maybe, it's just simply the fact, we will always be remembered for something.  To truly die, one has to be forgotten.  No one ever is.

When I sat in that crowded sanctuary as we all said our final goodbyes to that unaccomplished author and beautiful friend, I did not relive his moments of weakness or count any of his self-perceived flaws.  I thought of every moment where he was the good friend and man he was.  I thought of his uniqueness and not of the ordinary way he left us.

He is in a better place. 

At least, with me, he is.

Stop

I draw strength from you,  Inspiration, too.  Let's talk about how we once were instead of what became of you.  I'll count backwards starting at thirty two.

Thirty one, face down like a martyr with a thorny crown.  What if I had told you that everything always gets better even when it gets worse?  Look around, every damn thing hurts. Thirty, my angels versus your demons.  Twenty nine, we stop.  Things should not look better in reverse.


I draw hope from you.  Love and faith, too.  Let's talk about how we once were instead of what we are now.  I said, I loved you before I knew you.  You questioned how.  What if I had told you then that a day would come where you'd be slightly disengaged?  That day is now. 

Your face, you hide it well.  Behind some well manicured veil.  Hey, I never cared about those types of things.  Beauty is immeasurable like forgiveness.  I confess as I dangle on unattached strings.  You've got your busy life, I've got my mood swings.  I sway in the nothingness between us.  Stop, notice me before I drop.  Never mind, I'll just wander in the desert of once was.


I draw anger from you.  Hate, too.   Everyone drowns on a sinking ship.  But hey, it's the price we pay for a twenty year trip.  But hey, those battle scars are reminders of certain things; things I will never talk about.  Stop, I remind myself, with all this rage and doubt.  You dug your own grave.  I was merely a passerby.  And I float in the nothingness of how it once was.  And I go to the place of I told you so but you can't hear me.  I'm angry and I'm weary.  I draw strength from the negativity.  And I stop at the door of peace but I never knock.

Your walk was years ahead of your own feet.  Look at them; inconsolable and incomplete.  You did that.  We start out as friends and stop at sycophant.  And I contemplate what we really had.

I draw hope from your indifference.  It's a defense mechanism, I suppose.  Deluded dreams and polluted streams suck the marrow out of the nothingness in me.  It's apropos that we've become typical and ordinary.  Let's stop and return to the place we used to be.
or just stop and notice me.


 

Tomorrow

I want to love you until you hate me, I said.

Self-fulfilled prophecies drip from the tips of bloody fingers. 

I wrote her a letter.  And I mean, wrote it with my bare hands.  Pen, paper and a stamp.  And I questioned my own sanity.

I found her sitting on the curb in front of a convenience store.  Head, between her legs.  Softly, I asked her what she needed. 

Change, she replied. 
And you, she added.

She used to talk about her father in Jesus like terms.  I could not relate.

Well, honey, let's do it.  Let's talk about tomorrow.  And we debated over its existence. 

I walked two miles to the post office.  Just to mail her that letter.  I believed it would get there much faster as opposed to leaving it in my own mailbox.

I questioned my logic.

Tomorrow is an awkward subject.  On one hand, it does not exist.  On another, it's an illusion when it gets here.  We are always chasing tomorrow even when it's today. 

She thinks I think too much.

I wish you would hate me, I said.  So, I sought uncommon ground.  Like God.  Politics.  Babies.  Anything we disagreed on.

And it worked.

Sure, I came to regret my own act of sabotage.  Who wouldn't?  Look at her.  She's right there.  She's everywhere. 

My fingers are bleeding.  And there's a lump in my throat. 

And I couldn't be more happy.

She got my letter.  Just in time.

The next day, in fact.

Let's call it tomorrow.


And when they say, she's in a better place, I sure as hell believe it. And when I blame myself, I pray to God for a distraction.  And when someone dares to say angels, heaven, God; that none of them exist, I know better. 

And when tomorrow comes up, I always smile.

Never Mind

Uphill, downhill, driving on fumes.  No thrill behind this wheel, I'd hate to be you.  Someday, in the rear view mirror, we'll both say the other should steer.  What I mean is there's always more than one way; just to make myself clear.  Passive aggression is a detour from love and affection.  I hope someday, our road will reappear.  My trepidation, your frustration, what are we to do?  If it's any consolation, I'd hate to be you.

Hot, cold, watch my self-deprecation unfold as it's mistaken for manipulation but I'm sold on any proclamation of emancipation you decide to uphold.   Last thing you need is a spoonful of rhetoric and let truth be told that my words are nothing but esoteric.  I think, you read between the lines even when those lines are half-truths.  And what I mean is never mind, I'd hate to be you.

Where has the conviction gone?  Mumbled whispers like I love you should be loud not burdensome.  This road is bumpy and rarely traveled on.  Someday soon, we'll be counting days and there won't be none.  Breathing isn't living.  Sometimes when we're seething, we're unforgiving and I begin to think that we are done.  But those fumes keep us carrying on.

When our pride happens to cross paths, what are we to do?  I don't mean to be ambiguous nor my words inconspicuous.  Never mind, I''d hate to be you.

Sorry, Folks. Park's closed. Internet shoulda told Ya.

Last week, I watched Vacation for probably the 100th time in my life and it dawned on me just how stupid the movie is.  Now, the movie itself is a classic and there are a lot of funny moments BUT the ending is just ridiculous.  Who drives cross country to a theme park without knowing if their destination will be closed for maintenance?  I am certain there isn't a family alive that has driven across the country to Disneyland without making sure they would be open when they arrive.

But I thought about it and maybe my initial (after seeing the movie 100 times) reaction was a little harsh.  If the internet existed in the early 80's, I suppose Clark probably would have gone online to Wally World's website to make sure they would be open. 

We've become spoiled awfully quickly considering today's conveniences didn't exist back in the 80s or even twenty years ago.  Personally, I am thankful that the internet wasn't around when I was a kid or in high school.

Movies, TV shouws, really anything pop culture related would have been significantly different if the internet existed in the 80s.  War Games would have made more sense to me.  Matthew Broderick hacking NORAD's computers from his Commodore 64 seemed implausible at the time.  Now, we all know what hackers are. 

In the Breakfast Club, those kids could have been texting or playing Candy Crush on their phones during detention instead of getting stoned and causing trouble.  Also, I suppose, as a kid that wasn't aware of how pot works, I could have gone online to learn that pot does not make people dance or give them that much energy.  I would have learned quickly how illogical that dancing scene really was. 

In Sixteen Candles, Farmer Ted simply could have sold Samantha's panties on Ebay instead of charging kids $1 in the bathroom just to look at them.  Hell, those kids who spent a $1 to LOOK AT panties, could have simply gone online to see panties for free or if so inclined, they could have just gone straight to porn to see what lies underneath panties.

Movies back then captured our imagination.  We were being exposed to things we believed were impossibilities or even illogical.  They made us more curious about life and the future.  Simple things like paying to see panties was remarkable evidence of our innocense.  Today, with one click of a mouse, kids can see sex for free.  Because of the internet, curiosity ceases to exist quickly.  The reality of war or violence once created a shocking world view whereas today, dead bodies seem like characters in a video game.  The internet has densensitized us to everything from sex to death.  Nothing is sacred anymore.

Growing up, heroes were men like John Wayne or Clint Eastwood.  We considered them men of bravery.  There was a time when mothers were angry at Rambo and considered that character to be detrimental to children.  Then along came the internet.  Suddenly, movies shifted into effeminancy where heroes are now glittery vampires or little wizards in glasses.  I'm not sure the internet is to blame for Twilight or Harry Potter but certainly, the acceptance and fandom of such characters has been greatly enhanced by it.  And I don't necessarily believe anything is wrong with that but it does point to a societal shift in what makes a hero.

When I was 12 years old, my idea of a bully came in the form of Johnny Lawrence from the Cobra Kai dojo in the Karate Kid.  Who wasn't rooting for Daniel to finally defeat him?  Now, the internet has turned a lot of us former Karate Kid supporters into virtual versions of Johnny Lawrence.  Bravery is now defined by our keyboards instead of with our fists.  I suppose if the internet was around in the 80s, Daniel could have gone online and enacted his revenge on those bullies and averted those months of painting fences and waxing cars in order to learn karate.


I enjoyed growing up with curious and innocent eyes.  I liked the idea that learning involved books and real encylopedias.  I loved going to movies and not being so analytical where I start wondering why Clark Griswold was stupid enough to drive from Chicago to California in a rusty old station wagon without even looking online to make sure his destination will be open. 

Don't get me wrong.  The internet is fantastic and has changed the world more for the better than the alternative.  I am just glad my first 30 years on earth didn't include it. 

Small Favors

For the last two weeks of his life, it was a challenge to get him to eat.  I tried everything. I fried up some cheeseburgers in my trusty old George Foreman grill, I added macaroni 'n cheese to his regular food, I even cooked an extra steak just for him.  It didn't matter; Buddy had no appetite. 

I suppose having a soft ball sized tumor extruding from your neck is quite uncomfortable.  I am also certain that cancer as it flows through your body drains an entity of all cravings, a will to live and moreso, a desire to just quit fighting.  Eventually, all beings say enough is enough.

He lived a full life despite how short those 9 years seemed. 

From the moment I met him at the pound until his final second on earth in my arms, I loved that dog.   Being greeted at the door each day after a long exhausting day of work was a joy I took for granted.  His passion for riding in my car, playing with me at the park and sleeping on my bed next to me was a conviviality I did not recognize at the time.  It wasn't until that second after he fell into eternal slumber did I realize how different my life would be without him.

I suppose it would be easy to trivialize the loss of a pet.  Who cries for the antelope as it is mercilessly torn to shreds by the predatory lion during some National Geographic documentary?  It certainly never is the same people who cry for the predatory lion as he is celebratorily slaughtered by the predacious hunter.   But dogs are not like other animals... they just aren't. 

During those final two weeks of Buddy's life, I tried to force him to eat.  I tried to breathe new life into him.  I attempted to resuscitate his will to live.  I suppose, on some level, either through denial or willful arrogance, I believed I deserved more years with him and that I, alone, could cleanse his blood of his cancer.

It was probably a little awkward the final night we spent together when I kneeled at his side and prayed to God to spare my best friend's life.  I suppose God was busy that night; ignoring the pleas of distraught parents who were praying for a similar outcome for their own children.  Or just maybe, God was off at some dog park way up in the sky, throwing a tennis ball around to his own dog or a dog that once belonged to a guy like me. 

In a time of grief or loss, it's probably okay to misdirect some anger or cynically blame the being who gave us life and bestowed certain blessings upon us.  And I did just that.  Just as I had in previous circumstances of great loss.

It's probably not an easy job being God.  You're thanked when someone scores a touchdown, blamed when cancer robs a person of life or love, ignored during moments of feast, chastised during periods of famine, mocked by arrogant people who are certain they know all truths... I suppose God probably gets a little tired of us.

When I walked out of that vet's office holding a limp leash, an indescribable void immediately took hold of me.  That drive home all alone in my car was the longest 10 minutes of my life.  The passenger seat, which only an hour previously was occupied by my black lab whom I had spent every day and night with for nine years, now was just a cold reminder that he was gone forever. 

The following month I learned the true meaning of the old idiom thank God for small favors.  Buddy's scent lingered in my car and house for quite awhile.  A stray black hair being found became more of a godsend than a nuisance.  In fact, I reveled in each.  Little things, I once loathed, became big miracles.  My perspective had shifted from anger to delight. 

I learned a lot from that dog during his life but I learned more once his time was up.  I'm not sure I believe in that cynical phrase that all good things must come to an end because to dwell on the ending is nothing but a dismissal of every moment that leads up to that moment. 

I don't know as much as I think I do but there are certain truths I cling to... like, I have an amazing life.  I have and had friends that have remarkably made an impression on me.  I have a woman that loves me and always will no matter our outcome.  I have a mother that tries really hard despite never having been shown how to love or be loved. 

And I once had a dog that looked at me with awe inspiring eyes, mercifully forgave me for everything and wanted nothing more but to please me.

Dead Horse

The dead horse is twitching, grab me a stick.  The famous last words of a heretic. 

Lovely honey bee, let that pride drip. Salty, bitter sweet, still perfect.  I'll take the blame, no one else will.  Dead horse is twitching, going in for the kill.  Lovely genocide, broken heart graves.  Ugly, terrified, always yours still. 

The dead horse is twitching, grab me a stick.  Famous last words of a derelict.

Why must you be so cold and merciless?  No one prepared me for this metamorphosis.  Lovely butterfly stings like a bee.  How can something so fragile be so perilous? 

She leads me to water but I refuse to take a drink.  Dead horse walking, let's call it instinct.  Lovely weather, all around me.  Maybe, I'm wounded.  Maybe, I'm sick.  Like a bandaid, rip me off quick.

Dead horse is twitching, I'll hand you a stick.

Lovely dilemma, this must be.  To listen to your instinct or to trust me.  Maybe, someday, we can go back to the start.  Crazy and lovely, those beginning days are. Admit it, I'm reaching and you're just settling.

Here's a stick, the dead horse is trembling.

Once upon a time in a world far away, dead horses were left alone; left alone to decay.  Lovely wide berth is unfairly in the air tonight.

Put down that stick and bring the dead horse back to life.